Rough
by anonyme.anonyme
Summary: He takes you hard and unyielding over his desk.


He takes you hard and unyielding over his desk.

Either he doesn't care or wants the Secret Service to know that you're at his beck and call. Their blank faces etched with invisible secrets – his secrets, yours, friends and your families. At one time, you wonder if they were born and bred to utter the words 'yes, sir' because 'no, sir' or any similar synonym is foreign to them. This is their reprieve. This is his gift to them. A twisted way of saying, 'See, boys, the late nights weren't all for nothing. I can bring her here too.' So, they knew that this meeting has absolutely nothing to do with the four thick folders strewn across his desk. The folders that only hold four pages of actual information and the rest are copier paper. After the third summonses and same result, you understand the pattern. These meeting have nothing to do with names, voting patterns, Defiance, or betrayal.

It has everything to do with power.

You attempt to resist.

The first time, he sends Tom. You scavenge all the materials, data, charts, old conferences, and maps to show him. You want to show him that despite those meager votes the country wanted him to be President. The country still voted for him. Despite those few pathetic votes, the country stands behind _him_. The papers are discarded with the slam of the door. The hissed accusations and broken promises are traded like fire consuming a piece of wood. They chipped and burned at one another. The flames consumed and whittled away until nothing remained. Your souls drowned in human shells of ash. In a final expel of hope, you murmur, "I love you.'

The sudden clash of teeth and lips sends you reeling back against the wall. You hit your head and an audible _crack! _filters through the room but you keep going. The desperation to touch him consumes you. It is why you won't stop touching him. Your fingers press harshly into his shirt, nails curling and imprinting marks through the cotton. He's _yours_. You are _his. _His hands roam your body. His touch is harsher than ever before. He practically pushes and pinches your skin when he pulls you close. His thumbs bruise beneath your ribs when he pulls you away from the wall. When he throws you into his arms, you choke as you are thrust against his chest. You lose your breath. This is not soft, this not rough, he is manhandling you. When you crash against the wall again, you don't doubt that you will leave this night with bruises and perhaps, a concussion.

You don't care.

You need him. You need everything that he will give you. You want everything that he is willing to bestow on you. You love him in sickness and health. You love him like a sickness and its death. You cannot breathe. You warm. You have felt cold, frigid even, without his presence around you for so long. Once again, you are warm. Despite his cold demeanor, you are warm. Your lips quirk in a short smile, but he catches you. Wordlessly, he drops you. You scramble to catch yourself on the crown molding. You gulp and hate yourself for breaking the intimacy. You ruined it. You ruined him. You ruined yourself. You hate it. Your eyes clench tightly and your lips part, but a desperate high whine is released. A quite whimper of a pained animal is emitted. He doesn't flinch. He takes a step further away from you. Your hand slaps to your lips. You know the tears will come soon. You take a deep breath and nod determined not to show your deepest wounds to him, determined not to show how deeply you've not only hurt him but yourself. Your eyes are glossy and hands tremble. You release a shuddering breath. Your nod is curt and jerking. Shaking, you clench your hands together and turn away. You reach the door and the lights flicker. A storm outside rages, but the storm inside has only begun.

That evening, he takes you against the door. He pockets your underwear as a trophy and never says a word.

The second time, he allows you to retrieve a folder and open the data to him on the coffee table between you. Seconds later, he takes you over the arm of the couch. Again, he pockets your underwear as a trophy.

This time, the third time, you make no mistakes.

You know what this is.

You know that he is using you.

You understand – he feels used.

He feels betrayed. Worst of all, _you_ betrayed him.

He has told you many times that he trusted you. If he can trust no one else, he can trust you. When he awoke from his presumed deathbed and found no one, not even you, he had understood. He frequently explains, there must have been a greater plan to stop you from sitting vigil – Mellie, Cyrus, the world ending, _something_. He got it. You were Whitney Houston and he, Kevin Costner in _The Bodyguard_, you ran to him. He laughs when you makes the analogy, '_I run to you_,' but he got it.

He didn't get this.

You understand how betrayed he feels. You feel witless and utterly, plainly stupid for even agreeing to it. You never feel stupid, but this makes you feel abhorrently _naive_. You are a moral person but this compromises everything that you believe in. It does not just take off the white hat, but it douses it in black paint. When he can easily toss your ass in jail, he saves you. He does not let you rot in Gitmo or some other offshore sanctioned island. No, he leaves you right where you are. You do not know who he is torturing more – you or himself.

The depth of his betrayal shines in his eyes every moment that you stand in the room together. His jaw tightens and eyes avert briefly. His smile stops reaching his eyes, which don't crinkle any longer. It pains to know that you cause him so much unhappiness. Every time that you enter, his name lingers on your lips. You bubble with one thousand explanations and even more apologies, but you continue to swallow them. He doesn't want to hear them. That's not what you are here for. He deserves to be given what he needs. You let him treat you like you have treated him – worthless, devious, and simple. There lay no greater objective to this other than recreational sex, his pleasure. Although, you cannot lie and say that you do not enjoy it. He does not waste time asking if you enjoy yourself, but he does not make moves to avoid it.

You play his game.

Despite the pain and suffering that it will cause you later, you do it. The dull ache that it will leave for the rest of the week, you play it easily. You play it because you need it too. You need him as much as he needs you. If this is all that he's willing to give right now, you will wait. You will wait as you professed nearly a year earlier. You won't break this word to him.

The jerk of his hands rips you from your thoughts briefly. The jeans around your ankles hinder him from manipulating your body to his pleasure. He pulls them from your ankles and you help him. For a brief moment, his hands linger at your calves and his forehead rests against your thigh. You hear the heavy breath as he holds your jeans in his hands. The gentlest of kisses grazes the crux of your knee and you forget to breathe. You bite on your bottom lip. He presses feather light kisses along your inner thighs and you try not to make a noise. You try your best not to remind him or stir him from whatever haze he's fallen into. A haze where he still loves you and making love to you is his only goal. As his hand follows the curve of your derriere, you bite your lip harder. Your self-control amazes even yourself. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you try your best to control your breathing.

His tongue follows the line of kisses. The tip draws wavy patterns across the inside of your thigh and you are already so sensitive from the bruising fuck that abruptly ended. Your brow creases and it is the only sign that given he's actually affecting you. His tongue moves higher pausing at the curve of your bottom and you hold your breath. You can practically hear his thoughts and feel his indecision. Suddenly, you feel his tongue thrusting deeply into your gushing cunt. You ball your hands into fists and press your lips to the stack of papers on the desk. You can hardly breathe. The moans, groans, and gasps are all twisted inside of you. Your mind screams for you to do _something_, but you do not even dare press your hips back against his tongue. When he does not seem to have enough access, you shift closer on the desk and spread your legs for him. He seems to appreciate your wanton display, because he groans loudly and shakes his head. You know because he does so against your folds and his nose brushes over your entrance. It's official. He wants to kill you. He unabashedly thrusts his tongue into you a few more times. He slants his mouth over your sex, slurping loudly at your sex, sucking at every last drop of your essence, and easily shoving you to the bring of destruction. Your thighs quiver and sex clenches around his tongue begging him not to stop and certainly not to move.

But he does.

You know that he does because his face is soaked. When he shifts against your skin, you can feel that he's wet from his nose to his chin. Your eyes clench tightly shut knowing the reason why. You take short breaths and attempt your best not to think of it. You have kept quiet for this long. You cannot let an image be your downfall. He presses kisses along your lower spine and then across the curve of your bottom. The kisses are chaste but inevitably wet due to earlier actions. You practically tense when his tongue draws between the split of your bottom. Your eyes widen and you swallow thickly, he cannot really mean. You are sure that he has heard you, because he stops. You bury your face in the papers again and berate yourself. He stands and there is a rustle of fabric.

You do not move.

You do not question.

He moves around the desk and you make eye contact momentarily. You avert your gaze first mostly because they drag over his sculpted arms and chests. He never takes his shirt off. You never remove more clothing than you need to accomplish sex. You cannot help but look. You missed his warmth against your body. You missed the sparse hair brushing against your chest and how it aroused your breasts. When you sought another man, you would pop open the top two buttons of his collar and seek the similar trait. You rarely ever found your secret desire. When you meet his gaze again, he has a smug smirk and your cheeks tinge rosily. You loathe when he catches you admiring him. He does not need excess praise.

For the first time in the entirety of your 'relationship,' you know that he does. You know that he needs you to look. He needs you to want him. You spend a little bit more time than you usually do staring at him. You find the task easy. You miss him. Despite the ease at which you look at him, your gaze becomes foggy with tears and you avert it quickly to hide them. You do not just want to look. You want to touch him. The drawer snaps shut loudly and whatever he meant to retrieve never exits. He steps behind you again and urges you to raise one leg onto the desk. You do so wordlessly. He aligns his length which you notice isn't as hard as it usually is and thrusts into you.

Still, you both moan.

He does not still. You are not sure if he's freshly angry with you for averting your gaze or still angry with you for Defiance. Nevertheless, you can feel his anger in his thrusts. They are punishing. His hand rests on your hip and the other on your shoulder pushing you into every one of them. Despite his desperation to make you feel his anger, you know that he is not at full staff. He is not filling you like he usually does. You hate yourself for even reducing… this. He grunts and you shift your hips to give him deeper access. He chokes and you lift your hips even more. His thrusts become erratic and you know that he must have found the perfect angle. You swallow and let him thrust deeply into you with reckless abandon.

Suddenly, thick droplets rain on your back and you freeze.

He didn't just.

Did he?

You freeze and you can feel him scramble to divert your attention. His thrusts are inconsistent and wild. He almost directs your attention to the pulsing of your sex, but you cannot forget what just occurred. The wet droplets of _his tears_ have still not dried and he cannot ask you to merely forget them. Pressing your breasts to the desk, you reach behind you and grasp his hips. Your hands steady him and slow his thrusts. You clench around him more pointedly. You can feel him growing harder around you. You don't know if it is your touch or your sudden cooperative clenches. His hands shift from your hip and shoulders to your waist. The forceful grip softens and he merely holds you. His thumbs stroke circles on your skin and caress the swell of your breast.

He stills.

You fear that you overstep these careful boundaries that he put in place. Your hands timidly pull away but he catches them. Leaning forward, he places a kiss between your shoulder blades. He pulls away and runs a hand along your skin one last time. You know that he is dismissing you. You know that he is letting you go for the evening. You are disappointed. You are disappointed in yourself for taking away his pleasure and forcing him to face the reality. You disappoint yourself for not giving him pleasure however small that might be. Pulling the shirt over your head, you tug on the abandoned panties that he does not bother to pocket. He has already entered his private study. You open the door to find him buckling his pants and shirt already on his shoulders.

"What do you want, Olivia," He asks tersely.

You still have not grown accustom to the terse tone and clench of his jaw. You take a breath and shoulders tighten. You straighten your spine and offer a watery smile. Once again, you forget to breathe and take a timid step toward him. You do not fear him, but you fear everything that you two have become. You are a wounded animal. You stand before him and you see everything that you have destroyed. You hold your breath and expel it with a tortured sob. How could you break such a powerful and loving human being? Who ordained you that right? What made you believe that you were ever afforded such liberty?

Shaking your head, you press your full lips together and quickly turn away.

_Nothing_, you had come for nothing.

You turn your back, but you feel his proximity. You feel the heat of his exposed chest and soft clink of his half done belt buckle. When he steps closer, you almost step back into his embrace. Releasing a quiet breath, you close your eyes and wait for it. The rustle of his shirt teases you that he may touch you. He may ask you to stay but he never does. He never offers you a place by his side again. You clench your eyes shut and raise your chin reminding yourself, 'Gladiators, don't cry.' The few tears never you.

Instead, you mumble, "For what it's worth, I am sorry."

You are so taken aback by his touch that you actually hiccup. The breath is sucked into your lungs and you are taking a step forward when he envelops you. The quiet high-pitched noise causes a blush to tinge your cheeks and you can feel the satisfied smile against your shoulder. Without pause or thought, you playfully nudge him in the ribs. His broad arms feel magnificent around your lithe frame and you realize this is all you ever want. This warmth and snug embrace is all you ever dream about. The meaningless others never make you feel this way. This time, you actually fear that you may cry. The startling epiphany forces you to duck your face and snuggle it into his broad bicep. You take a deep breath of his earthly masculine scent and undertones of fading cologne. He snuggles into your hair and presses a warm kiss to your jaw.

You wonder, is it all over? You know that it can hardly be, but you have a million apologies. If that's what it takes, you are willing to begin.

Starting… now.

* * *

**Disclaimer:** I do not own ABC's _Scandal _nor do I receive any profit from any works written. The only profit I receive are reviews which are much appreciated and obliged.


End file.
